To Dream Again (52 page)

Adrian had made no will. Nathaniel, as his closest relation, would have inherited his property, but there had been little to inherit. Creditors had taken all that he owned, from his Rembrandt masterpieces to his last box of matches. The only thing left was the entailed estate in Devon, stripped bare of all its furnishings, and the title, both of which passed to Nathaniel, who reacted to the news that he was now a viscount with an unimpressed yawn.

The trains had proved to be as successful as Nathaniel had predicted. All the retailers who had purchased Chase-Elliot trains reported within days of delivery that their inventory was gone, and all had demanded more. Nathaniel and Mara had gladly rented a vacant building and all the necessary equipment, and with Michael's help, they'd been making trains at a frantic pace right up until December 22, the day of their wedding.

The ceremony had been held at St. Andrew's Church, making Nathaniel the first viscount on record to be married in Whitechapel. Mara had worn a lovely ecru silk dress that Rebecca had made for her, Emma had been her bridesmaid, Billy hadn't fidgeted at all in his fancy clothes, and all the employees of Chase-Elliot had attended.

It had been the happiest day of her life, even though Nathaniel had, of course, arrived late at the church and worried her to death. But he'd smiled that special smile as he'd watched her walk down the aisle, and she'd forgiven him instantly. He had looked at her as they spoke their vows with so much love in his eyes, she knew no other woman in the world was as blessed as she.

Christmas Eve had come next, with wrapped presents being hidden all over the lodging house, and plenty of kisses beneath the mistletoe that had been mischievously hung in doorways by Nathaniel and Mrs. O'Brien.

And today, Christmas. A very special day for Billy, who had never received a wrapped Christmas present in his life. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and trifle, the exchange of gifts, and stories of St. Nick and sugar plum fairies had entranced the boy. It was nearly midnight before Mara and Nathaniel finally tucked him into bed, paying no heed to his protests.

"I was very proud of you," Nathaniel murmured as they lay in bed. "You ripped the paper off every single one of your presents."

"Not very dignified of me," she replied. "I should be dignified. I'm a viscountess now." She glanced over at him. "Are viscountesses allowed to fly kites and climb trees?"

His arm tightened around her. "Only when accompanied by viscounts."

She smiled, snuggling close to him beneath the thick counterpane and resting her cheek on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and listened to the even rhythm of his breathing. She was Nathaniel's wife, next year's orders for trains were already pouring in, and despite the fire, they were actually set to make a reasonable profit. She couldn't be happier.

She began making plans. If the weather was good, the new factory would be finished by April, and the insurance would cover nearly the entire cost. They'd reinvest most of the train profits back into the business, of course, but by autumn, there would be enough money for them to purchase a London house. Knightsbridge, perhaps, or Kensington.

She pictured it in her mind. A nice town house, with blue shutters and window boxes of red geraniums. Nathaniel had lost most of his equipment in the fire, but his furniture and books would soon fill their house.

They would spend August in the country, since Nathaniel now owned the estate in Devon. Billy would love that. He and Nathaniel could climb trees to their heart's content. Mara decided she might even give tree climbing a try.

Income from rents would maintain the estate and perhaps provide a bit of extra income, if she were careful with the finances. By next Christmas, they ought to have a nice sum in the bank and a secure future ahead of them.

"Parlor furniture."

Startled to hear his voice when she'd thought him asleep, she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him. "What?"

He nodded absently, staring up at the ceiling. "Yes, and maybe some window seats. There would have to be other furniture, too. Wardrobes, and rocking chairs. Kitchen utensils, too."

She frowned in bewilderment, listening as he rambled on about furniture. "Kitchen utensils?" she echoed.

"Mmm...bookshelves. Books, too, of course."

Was he making plans for their house? She continued to study him doubtfully.

"Paintings, maybe some potted ferns, coat trees."

"Nathaniel?"

Lost in thought, he didn't answer, and she reached out, grasping a handful of his tawny hair to give it a gentle tug. "Nathaniel, what are you talking about?"

He looked at her. "Dollhouses, of course," he answered, surprised by her confusion. "We sell the bare house, then offer all the furnishings for sale by the piece. Think of the opportunities."

She groaned—visions of a secure future and a tidy bank account disintegrating—and leaned down until her face was inches from his. "One dream at a time, my darling," she said and kissed him. "One dream at a time."

THE END

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Chapter Two

Tess opened her eyes to find herself in a strange room. She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight washing over her. Her head ached, and her body felt battered and weary. She moved one hand to her rounded stomach, reassuring herself that the baby was all right, as her gaze traveled around the room, taking in unfamiliar furnishings and whitewashed walls, coming finally to the window on her left.

A man stood there, looking out the window, his profile to her. He was drawing in a sketchbook that rested in the crook of his right arm. His shirt of white linen was torn and smeared with paint, and his dark trousers were tucked into black boots badly in need of polishing. His thick, ebony hair was unfashionably long and caught back in a queue.

Startled by the sight of him, she sat straight up in the bed, letting out a gasp at the sharp pain in her head.

The man turned at the sound, and Tess suddenly realized she was clad in only a man’s nightshirt. She couldn't remember changing her clothes, and she felt her face grow hot as she pulled the sheets up to her neck and wondered frantically what had happened to her clothes.

The man didn't seem to notice her discomfiture. He merely raised one black eyebrow at the sight of her awake and watching him. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.”

Tess didn't reply. She scooted back against the pillows in alarm, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, she glanced down at her ringless hand then back at him. Was he insulting her by calling her mademoiselle, when she was obviously pregnant? But there was no hint of mockery in his face or his voice. “Who are you?” she whispered in English.

“I am Alexandre Dumond,” he answered her in the same language. “And you?”

Dumond? The name was familiar. She glanced at the sketchbook in his hand and the paint all over his shirt. Could he be Dumond, the French painter? Dumond's works were well known, even in London. “The artist?”

He gave her a small bow. “
Précisément
.”

She stared at him, vague recollections of whispered London gossip coming to mind. Dumond had once received an invitation from the Prince Regent to submit his works to the Royal Academy and had actually refused. It was rumored that he lived alone, an eccentric recluse hiding from the world at his villa in France. She took another quick glance around. The rumors seemed to be true.

His deep voice interrupted Tess's thoughts. “How do you feel?”

She tightened her grip on the sheets and did not answer, suspicious and wary. She watched him drop the sketchbook and charcoal on the table beside him, then stride toward her. He was a tall man and powerfully built. She pressed her back to the carved headboard behind her, willing herself not to show the fear she felt at his approach.

But when he stopped beside the bed and reached out his hand, Tess could not prevent a jolt of panic. She slapped his hand away. “Don't touch me!”

A puzzled frown drew his dark brows together, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, ignoring her protests. He reached out again, catching her wrists before she could strike out at him again. Tess tried desperately to pull away, hating his superior strength, but all he did was hold her wrists with one hand as he gently pressed the other to her forehead.

“The fever has broken,” he said, letting his hand drop and releasing her wrists. “I'm relieved.”

Tess fell back, exhausted from her brief struggle. She licked her dry lips, wishing her head didn't ache and she could think clearly, wishing he would move away from her side. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“I carried you, of course. You were in no condition to walk, mademoiselle. I found you in my garden.”

“I didn't mean to trespass. I didn't think anyone lived here.”

His lips tightened slightly. “That is understandable, I suppose.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four?” Tess drew a deep breath. “I don't remember anything beyond being in the garden. I dreamed—” She stopped. She didn't want to remember her dreams.

“You have caused me a great deal of worry, mademoiselle. You have had a fever I feared was mortal. You were delirious.”

She stiffened. “What did I say?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

She watched him turn to the table beside the bed and ladle water from a pail into a cup. He held the cup out to her, but when she didn't move to take it from him, he pressed it to her lips. “Drink it,” he ordered.

Her whole body tensed, and she closed her eyes. The memory was there before she could stop it. Nigel, yanking her hair back and pressing a glass of hated port against her lips. “Drink it, Countess. Drink it. I know you love a glass of port.” She could still feel the sticky red liquid running down her chin, staining her dress.

“Drink the water,
chérie
,” a different voice murmured, snapping her back to the present. Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring into his. They were black eyes, not blue, reminding her that this was not Nigel. She swallowed as he tilted the water into her mouth.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as he set aside the half-empty cup and rose. “I'll bring you some soup.”

Tess did not relax until Alexandre Dumond had left the room, resting her aching head against the headboard and reminding herself that Nigel was dead. She’d killed him, the man she had once loved, and she supposed she should feel guilt over that act, but she didn't. She’d had three months to come to terms with that. All she felt now was fear, and the need to overcome it and survive.

When Dumond brought the soup, he sat down on the edge of the bed and spooned the broth into her mouth. She felt suffocated by his closeness and she hated being so weak that she could not feed herself. She kept her gaze fixed on his hand as it moved toward her and away, prepared by the past few years to expect anything—be it a touch, a slap or a blow. But Dumond went about his task without touching her at all, and after a while, Tess relaxed a bit, weariness and hunger overcoming fear. When he had given her the last spoonful in the bowl, she dared to look directly into his face.

He was studying her, and when she met his thoughtful gaze, she studied him in return. His eyes were truly black, so black the pupils disappeared, and surrounded by thick, sooty lashes. His face was lean and brown, with tiny creases carved from the sun and time and something more. There were stories written on that face, hidden in those eyes. Tess found herself unable to look away.

Abruptly he stood up and the strange spell was broken. He retrieved his sketchbook from the table by the window and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at her, and said in a quiet voice, “Sleep now,
mon enfant
.” Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.

***

She did sleep, deep and dreamless, waking only briefly to take more soup or water, then drifting off again. But when she woke to the sound of a cock crow two mornings later, she felt no sharp pain of headache and no rush of dizziness as she sat up in the bed.

She glanced down at the swell of her abdomen under the sheets and gently rubbed it with her hand, wishing the baby would turn or kick, but she felt no flutters of movement, and she could only hope her illness had done the child no harm.

To prevent herself from dwelling on that possibility, Tess reached for the ladle and poured herself a cup of water. Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton. When she ran a hand through her hair, it felt sticky. She grimaced, knowing she must look as disheveled as she felt.

She wondered about her mysterious host. She had seen no one but him, and she wondered if anyone else even lived here. If he did indeed live alone, Tess thought, glancing down at the nightshirt she wore, then it must have been he who had—

The door opened and Dumond entered the room, carrying a bowl and spoon. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle. You appear to be feeling better.”

This man must have seen her without her clothes. With that realization, Tess pulled the nightshirt together at her throat, and as he came toward her, she eyed him warily. When he sat down on the edge of the bed, she tightened her grip on the nightshirt, working not to show any hint of either embarrassment or alarm as she thought of how he must have stripped her out of her clothes.

“You were soaking wet, mademoiselle,” Dumond said as if reading her mind. “And very ill. Here,” he added, thrusting the bowl toward her. “Eat.”

When she took the bowl, he rose and departed without another word.

She had finished eating by the time he returned. He carried a washbasin in one hand, and a pair of women’s shoes in the other. Draped over his arm were towels, a dress and several undergarments. He set the basin on the table by the window, then laid the clothes and towels at the foot of the bed. As he left the room again, he paused in the doorway to look at her over his shoulder at her. “Your clothes are in tatters and not fit to wear,” he said, and a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “These will perhaps fit you better,
n'est-ce pas
? But, should you wish for your old clothes when you continue your journey, I have washed them for you.”